by K. J. Parker
“I see.”
Ducas shook his head. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You’re free to go, if that’s what you want. You can go wherever you like. Or,” he added with a slight frown; probably he didn’t realize he was betraying himself with that frown, “you can stay here, whichever you like. You don’t need me to tell you, you could set up shop as a smith or an armorer or pretty much anything you like, and you’d be guaranteed a damn good living.”
Ziani raised an eyebrow. “People would be prepared to have dealings with a Mezentine?”
“Of course.” Ducas grinned. “Even if you were no good, they’d flock to you for the novelty value. But according to Cantacusene, you’re the best craftsman who ever set foot in the Duchy, so…”
Ziani nodded. “I’d need capital,” he said. “A workshop, tools, materials…”
“That wouldn’t be a problem, I’m sure. You’ll have no trouble finding a backer. The whole city’s talking about you, you know.”
“I’d have thought they’d have other things on their minds right now.”
“Yes,” Ducas admitted. “But life goes on. We’re a resilient lot. A great many people died in the Vadani war; it’s not the first time we’ve had to cope with a national disaster. And as far as you’re concerned, they won’t blame you just because of where you’re from or the color of your skin. We aren’t like that here. And everybody knows you’ve suffered just as much at the hands of the Republic as they have.”
Everybody knows that, do they? What exactly do they know, Ziani wondered, about anything? He kept his face blank. “Well,” he said, “at first sight that’d seem like the logical thing to do. At least until I find my feet and decide what’s the best use I can put my life to. It’s a strange feeling, you know,” he went on, watching Ducas out of the corner of his eye. “Suddenly finding yourself in a new place, with nothing at all except yourself. I mean, from what you’ve just told me, it could be the making of me.”
“Perfectly true,” Ducas said. “A man like you, with your skills and talents. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Well, there you are, then.” Ducas was smiling. “You’ve got plenty of time to start again. Settle down, build up a business, start a family. You can do anything you like.”
I could so easily hate you for saying that, Ziani thought; but you’re too valuable to hate. “Clouds and silver linings,” he said. “Or I could move on. If I were to do that, where could I go?”
Ducas shrugged. “Well,” he said, “if you’re dead set on this business of teaching people the Mezentine way, you’d probably be better off across the border, in Vadanis. They’d be more likely to listen to you there. Of course,” he added quickly, “there’s no hurry, you can take your time and decide. Really, in spite of everything, I guess you’re in a good position — I know that’s hard to believe, seeing what you’ve been through, but…” He paused, rebuking himself for crassness. Really, it would be easy to like this man. “What I mean is, you’re a free agent; no ties, no responsibilities. You can make a fresh start, wherever you want.”
Ducas went away shortly after that. There was, he’d stressed again before he left, no hurry at all. Vaatzes could stay here in the castle for a bit, it was entirely up to him. No pressure. Everything very relaxed, very tranquil. Quite.
Ziani looked round the room to see if there was anything that might come in handy, but there wasn’t. They’d given him clothes, respectable, what passed for good quality among these tribesmen; clothes and shoes were all he’d take when he left in the morning, and that would do fine. He’d got over the sudden spurt of violent anger that had made him want to grab Ducas by the throat and dig his thumbs into the hollow between the collarbones, thus quickly and efficiently stopping the mechanism. He thought about that impulse for a moment, and wondered what was happening to him. He’d been alive for thirty-four blameless years, he could remember, and count on the fingers of one hand, all the times when he’d lost his temper and committed or even contemplated violence. It was, he’d always prided himself, completely foreign to his nature. He’d seen fights at the factory, once or twice in the street (drunks, of course), and he’d acknowledged the existence of the violent impulse without being able or wanting to understand it. There were bad things in the world, and that was one of them. Since then, he’d killed two men, possibly three, but he’d been forced to it. The acts had been neutral, since they’d been imposed on him by forces outside his control. This time, though…
He analyzed the moment. Ducas had said something unbearable, and it had provoked him; he couldn’t stand the idea that the words would go unanswered, as though unless they were challenged and avenged, they’d be minuted forever in some sort of metaphysical transcript, the proceedings of his life. But he knew perfectly well that Ducas hadn’t meant to torture him, or even give offense. He’d been trying to be helpful. True, he had his own clumsy motivations. Ducas, he knew, was afraid of him, which was understandable. He wanted him to go away. Because of his breeding and upbringing and the mess of jumbled principles and ethics his poor brain was stuffed with, he’d found himself urging this foreigner whose presence disturbed him so much to do the opposite of what he wanted him to; because he was ashamed of his fear, presumably, and because he felt he was offending his duty of hospitality. Accordingly, because he wanted Ziani to go away, he’d made a great song and dance about how easy and profitable it’d be for him to stay. It would be dangerously easy to like these people.
That was beside the point. There had been a moment when he’d wanted to kill Ducas, or at least hurt him very badly, just for a tactless word. He wondered: have I been quiet and harmless all my life because that’s who I am, or just because I’ve never before run into anything more than trivial provocation? It was, he recognized, an important issue. It was essential that he should know his own properties, tensile strength and breaking strain, before he started work.
A little later they brought him up some food (it was a depressing thought that the garbage on his plate probably counted as the best this country could offer); he ate it, lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.
Veatriz Sirupati to Valens Valentinianus; greetings.
Trying to understand people is like trying to catch flies in a net; just when you think you’ve got them and you pounce, they flit out through the holes in the mesh and leave you feeling baffled and stupid.
When Orsea got back from the war, I thought everything was going to be dreadful; and so it has been, but not in anything like the way I thought. I was sure everybody would be angry and bitter and hysterical, there’d be riots and mobs throwing stones and ferocious speeches in the streets, everybody blaming Orsea and the court, everything out in the open. But it hasn’t been like that at all. It’s been quiet; and I think that’s much, much worse. It’s like a married couple, I suppose. If they quarrel and shout at each other and throw things, obviously it’s pretty bad; but when they just don’t talk at all, you know it’s hopeless. That’s the sort of quiet there’s been here, ever since the news broke about the disaster; except I don’t get the feeling anybody blames us for what happened (which is ridiculous, isn’t it? Surely it was all our fault, when you come right down to it). They don’t hate us; I don’t even think they particularly hate the Mezentines, either. It’s like there’s no point getting angry with what’s happened, the way you don’t get angry with death. It’s something that happens and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. All I can think of is that people here are so used to war and slaughter and armies not coming back that they don’t get angry anymore. Do you know that, over the last two hundred years, among men over the age of twenty-five, one in three has been killed in wars? No wonder they all marry young here. I can’t understand how people can live like this.
(I’m not thinking, of course. Since most of that time we’ve been at war with you, presumably it’s pretty much the same with your people; so you understand it better tha
n I can. I hate the fact that I spent so much time living away from here when I was young. This might as well be a foreign country, for all I understand it.)
The biggest thing that’s been happening lately is the business with the Mezentine exile. It’s all been a complete mystery to me, I’m afraid. As far as I was concerned, there simply wasn’t an issue. He was offering to teach us how to be just like the Republic: all working in factories, making things to sell abroad with those amazing Mezentine machines and so forth. But it would’ve been completely impossible; we’re nothing like the Mezentines — by their standards, I suppose we’re unspeakably primitive; and besides, if we were to start making all these things to sell, who on earth are we supposed to sell them to? But Orsea and the court had a long debate about it. I think Orsea really liked the idea; it would’ve been a new future for the Duchy, he thought, at a time when he’d just brought about a total disaster; it would’ve been a way of putting things right, and he’s so completely heartbroken and torn up with guilt. But Miel Ducas talked him out of it, and of course he listened to Miel. He listens to everybody except himself. It’s stupid, really; it’s not just that Orsea’s his own worst enemy, he’s his only enemy. But he puts so much work into it, to make up the shortfall.
This is turning into a very bad letter. It’s full of politics and news and personal stuff and all the things we agreed we wouldn’t write to each other about; I’m being very boring and no fun. I really don’t mean to dump all my problems on you like this. Let’s talk about something interesting instead.
I’ve left some lines blank to indicate me sitting here trying to think of something interesting to say. If I could draw, I’d put in a little sketch of me, baffled (but I can’t, as you know; all my faces end up long and thin and pointy, like goblins). The truth is, I’m so worried about Orsea and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to help him. He’s wandering about the place all numb — it’s the way he is first thing in the morning, when he blunders about still asleep for an hour, except that it lasts all day. He’s not trying to be horrible or anything like that. I think he’s trying so hard not to think about the disaster and everything, and the only way he can manage it is not to think about anything. It’s like when you’ve got a little scrap of a tune going round and round in your head, and the only way you can make it shut up is to think a kind of low, monotonous hum.
I’ve left some more lines blank, because I really am trying to think of something cheerful and interesting, because I imagine you need cheering up, too. Your last letter — here I go again — it was so intensely bright and clever and full of fascinating things that I got the distinct feeling you’ve got an annoying tune in your head as well; but you don’t hum, you sing something else to get rid of it. Which is not to say that it wasn’t a wonderful letter, and it kept me going for ages; I rationed it, a paragraph a day for a week, like a besieged city. Look, I can’t leave any more lines, because this is all the paper I’ve got, and it’s got to fit inside a little carved soapstone box that that dreadful Adventurer woman is taking to sell in Avadoce, so I can’t waste any more space; but I’ve got to tell you something interesting, or you won’t want to bother with me anymore.
Here’s something I’ve just thought of. It’s not new, I’m afraid. I’ve been saving it up. Apparently — this is from one of the merchant women, so believe it or not as you like — somewhere in the desert there’s an underground river. It’s a long way down under the sand, and the only way they know it’s there is because there’s a certain kind of flower that puts down incredibly long roots, and it can tap into the river and that’s how it survives. Apparently there was this man lost in the desert one time, and he was wandering around convinced he was going to die, and suddenly he saw the most amazing thing: a long, straight line of bright red flowers, like a fence beside a road. At first he thought it was some kind of vision, and if he followed the flowers it’d lead him to Paradise; so, he thought, I might as well, just in case; and he followed the line, and just when he couldn’t go a step further, he literally stepped into a pool of water and very nearly drowned. Anyway, he was all right after that; the thing is (according to this merchant woman) that these flowers only bloom for one week a year, and then they die off completely and shrink back into their roots, and you could tread on them and never know they were there.
Thinking about it, I’m pretty much positive it isn’t true; but it’s a bit more cheerful than me moaning on about how sad everything is. You never know; tomorrow Orsea might tread on an unexpected flower, and we’ll find our way out of here.
Write soon.
Walking out of the castle felt strangely familiar. It took Ziani a moment or so to work out what it reminded him of; passing under the gateway arch and into the narrow street, he remembered leaving the Guildhall in Mezentia. He tried to think how long ago that had been, but he couldn’t. It was a notable failure in calibration. Perhaps he was losing his fine judgment.
There was one distinct difference from the last time. Then, he’d walked out alone and nobody had seen him. This time, there was someone waiting for him.
A tall man in a long cloak had been leaning against the gatepost; he straightened up and hurried after Ziani. “Excuse me,” he called out. Obviously Ziani didn’t recognize him, but the voice was easily classified; another feature of the nobility is how similar they all sound. Since it was unlikely that an Eremian aristocrat would be acting as a paid assassin for the Republic, Ziani allowed himself to breathe again.
Ziani stopped and waited for him.
“You’re the Mezentine,” the man said.
No point trying to deny it, even if he wanted to. “That’s right,” he said.
“Vaatzes,” the man said. He pronounced it slightly wrong; one long A instead of two short ones. “The Ducas told me about you. My name is Sorit Calaphates.”
He paused, as if waiting for some reaction; then he realized he was talking to someone who couldn’t be expected to know who he was. “Pleased to meet you,” Ziani said.
Calaphates seemed a little nervous, but most likely only because he was talking to someone he hadn’t been formally introduced to. “I understand from the Ducas,” he went on, “that you may be considering setting up in business here in the city. Would that be correct?”
“I’m not sure,” Ziani said. “I haven’t made up my mind, to be honest with you.”
Calaphates shifted a little; he didn’t seem happy standing still in public. “If you’ve got nothing better to do,” he said, “I wonder if you’d care to come and share a glass of wine with me, and perhaps we could talk about that.”
Ziani considered him, as a commodity. He was somewhere between forty and sixty; a long man, thin arms and legs, a slight potbelly and the makings of a spare chin under a patchy beard. He had very small hands, Ziani noticed, with short fingers. He didn’t look like he was any use for anything, but Ziani knew you couldn’t judge the nobility by appearances. His shoes were badly blocked and stitched, but they had heavy silver buckles.
“Thank you,” Ziani said.
Calaphates led him across the square to a small doorway in a bare, crumbling wall; he produced a large key and opened it. “Follow me,” he said quietly (there was something rather comic about the way he said it).
The door opened into a garden. Apart from the Guildhall grounds and a few similar spaces in the cloisters of other Guild buildings, there were no gardens in Mezentia. Ziani certainly hadn’t expected to find one here, not in a city perched on top of a mountain. His knowledge of the subject was more or less exactly matched by his interest in it, but he knew gardens needed a lot of water, and he still hadn’t quite figured out how the city’s water supply worked. It stood to reason that, however it got there, water wasn’t something that could be wasted. But here was this garden; a lush green lawn, beautifully even, edged with terraced beds blazing with extremes of color. There were green and brown and silver and purple trees, cut and restrained into unnaturally symmetrical shapes. The beds were edged wi
th low hedges of green and blue-gray shrubs — he recognized lavender by its smell, though he’d never seen it growing; the whole place stank of flowers, like the soap factory in Mezentia. There were tall, smooth stone pillars with flowering vines trained up them, and huge stone urns with still more flowers spilling over the edges, like overfilled tankards. Ziani looked round but he couldn’t see anything he recognized as edible; the obvious conclusion was that all this effort and ingenuity and expense was simply to look nice. Strange people, Ziani thought.
In the middle of the lawn was a round stone table, with two small throne-like chairs. Calaphates gestured to him to sit in one of them, and took the other for himself. By the time he’d lowered himself into the thing (it was designed for appearance rather than comfort) a woman had appeared from nowhere holding a silver tray with a jug and two silver cups. She poured him a drink. It tasted horrible.
“Your good health,” Calaphates said.
Ziani smiled awkwardly at him. “What can I do for you?” he said.
Calaphates took a moment before answering. (Is he afraid of me in some way, Ziani wondered; or is it just diffidence, or embarrassment?) “I should tell you,” he said, “that I’m a member of the Duke’s council. Yesterday we debated your offer —”
“Turned me down, yes,” Ziani interrupted.
“That was the Duke’s decision,” Calaphates said. “It’s not what I’d have chosen to do myself. However, the decision has been taken, and, to put it bluntly, that leaves you at rather a loose end.”
Ziani nodded.
“If you intend to stay here and set up in business” — Ziani could feel the effort it was costing Calaphates to talk to him; is it because I’m Mezentine, Ziani wondered, or just because he doesn’t know what to make of me? — “you will obviously need capital; a workshop, tools, supplies. I won’t pretend I understand the technical aspects. But I flatter myself I know a good investment when I see one.”